


Mycroft's Wardrobe

by out_there



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 23:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14841266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: Mycroft’s wardrobe is fascinating, at least to Greg.





	Mycroft's Wardrobe

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [these suits on Tumblr](https://out-there-tmblr.tumblr.com/post/173891531933/redgreyandpurple-lavenderandvanilla).
> 
> Just a short thing, not betaed or brit-picked, so all errors are mine.

Mycroft’s wardrobe is fascinating, at least to Greg.

There’s the fact that Mycroft doesn’t see anything strange in having an entire room devoted to his clothes. Back in the days of sharing a flat, Greg slept in a bedroom smaller than Mycroft’s dressing room. He’s paced it out, remembering his single bed tucked into the corner with just enough space left for a bedside table and a tiny freestanding wardrobe. This room, with walls lined with wooden shelves and hanging rails, is bigger.

Then there’s the way Mycroft keeps every item perfectly neat. Every scarf and every tie has its own particular spot. Every jacket hangs together, all with one button clasped and facing to the left; the trousers are on their own rail, hanging to the same height. The waistcoats are on the rail beneath the jackets, and Greg finds it amazing that Mycroft can tell his pinstriped suits apart when everything hangs separately. If Greg measured the distance between each piece, he’s sure it would be the exact same distance.

There are two rails of polished leather shoes, standing to attention. They’re mostly black or brown, but there’s also a pair of dark navy brogues, as polished as the rest. That’s what Greg really likes about this room: the unexpected find.

All of Mycroft’s clothes are folded precisely, lined up to an exact imaginary measure, but in the midst of all that order, there will be a grey scarf with bright yellow daisies or a tie with watercolour swirls of pink and violet. Amongst plain silver and gold cufflinks, there’s a gleam of green enamel and another with red polka dot pattern. Amongst woollen waistcoats in shades of grey, black and murky browns, amongst professional pinstripe and traditional tweeds, there’s a cream waistcoat, crisscrossed with lines of red and navy. It’s playful; reminds Greg of something a kids’ TV host would wear.

He runs his fingers over the material, the fine wool soft to the touch. Turning it, Greg finds the silk backing is a deep red. He imagines Mycroft wearing it: standing in the study perhaps, fire blazing hot enough for Mycroft to remove his jacket, attention caught by a book open in his hands. It’s easy to imagine Mycroft in his shirt and sleeve garters, his tie neatly knotted, the red silk clasped neatly at the small of his back.

Even in his own imagination, Gregory knows he wouldn’t be content looking. He’d have to reach out and touch, slide a hand along the back of Mycroft’s shoulder, down the length of his spine, let his fingertips drag on the silk until Mycroft shuddered. Until Mycroft closed his book and let Greg turn him around, let Greg crowd him back against the bookcase, worm fingers between the buttons of that waistcoat and tug him down into a kiss.

“I haven’t worn that in years,” Mycroft says from the doorway, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Greg knows better than to ask what that was about; given Mycroft’s frown when he answered it and left the room, it’s a conversation Mycroft would delegate if he could.

“I like it.” Greg releases it with one last brush of his fingers, well aware that Mycroft is watching the movement closely. “It would look great on you.”

Mycroft’s eyes dart to the side, the way they always do when he’s surprised by a compliment. It’s an endearingly coy expression on a very powerful man.

“I doubt it fits,” Mycroft says sensibly but he narrows his eyes at the waistcoat as if he’s planning an invasion. If Greg’s lucky -- and he usually is -- he’ll get to see it next weekend.


End file.
